


Our Wall Against The Dark

by M_Moonshade



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Dominion War (Star Trek), Gen, Injured Characters, POV Julian Bashir, Sisko is a good dad, canon-typical Garashir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29082294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/M_Moonshade
Summary: When a cave-in leaves a handful of the crew trapped with no supplies and no way out, they have no choice but to bide their time until rescue can arrive.
Comments: 25
Kudos: 65
Collections: Star Trek: Just in Time Fest





	Our Wall Against The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into writing Star Trek fic, and I take full responsibility for my missteps.  
> I'm also taking some creative liberties with the Draconian race and culture, but in my defense, their Memory Beta entry was very short.

At least it isn’t solitary, Julian reminds himself. No matter how miserable this is, he’s seen worse.

Point in favor of the cave: He isn’t alone. Captain Sisko is here, as are Garak and two young Draconian soldiers.

Point against: the female Draconian is injured, a gouge deep into her abdomen that reveals far too much of her insides for anyone’s comfort. The slightly older male holds her close, whispering a constant stream of reassurances that ironically does nothing to ease the tension in the air. Julian would at least be able to put a temporary patch on the wound if he had his medkit, but he lost that in the cave-in.

Hopefully Jadzia can make use of it.

Another point in favor of the cave: though the cave-in cut the five of them off from the rest of the crew, he knows that they’re alive just on the other side of those rocks. Miles swore through the debris that he’d find his way to the runabout and beam them aboard—back to the infirmary, back to safety, back to the warm and dry that isn’t this bloody cavern.

Point against: the cave is cold. Damn cold. Not unsurvivable for a human, certainly, but he can feel it slowly sapping away at Garak, who has foregone all pretenses of dignity to huddle between Julian and Captain Sisko, clinging to the scraps of their shared body heat. In the name of that dignity, Julian doesn’t tell the Captain the other reason why the Cardassian is shaking so violently. Nor does he point out that the cold may be speeding the injured Draconian’s decline.

Point neutral: the Jem’Hadar are waiting just outside the mouth of this cave, ready to kill them all—or, if their Vorta are feeling generous, to capture the more strategically valuable among them and send back Changelings in their stead. It’s a slightly more hopeful arrangement than Camp 371, but not by much.

Point in favor: instead of that mind-numbing silence there’s the steady _drip-drip-drip_ of stalactites deeper in to mark the time, the steady breathing of five bodies occasionally interrupted by the sound of Garak’s shivering.

Oh, and there’s the poetry.

At some point in the past several hours, the male Draconian’s assurances had tapered off and he’d started murmuring poetry to the injured female. Unfortunately for all involved, he doesn’t seem to know all that many poems, and he’s taken to cycling between them in an endless babble. The Universal Translator doesn’t seem to be doing Draconian poetry any favors, either, and what makes it through is so terrible that he almost lets Garak make the disparaging remarks that are obviously waiting on his tongue.

Even worse, the boy’s voice is going raw and hoarse. More and more often the poetry is interrupted by a rasping cough that sends a shudder through Garak.

Sisko must feel it, too.

“You’ve been at it a long time, Private,” he tells the boy. “I think you deserve to take a rest.”

“No,” the boy croaks. “No. I’m fine.”

He’s anything but. Julian hasn’t treated any Draconians personally before today, but he learned enough in medical school to recognize marks of exhaustion in his drooping crests and pallid scales.

“I think the Captain makes an excellent point,” Garak says, side-eyeing Julian before he can be elbowed into silence again. “I’m sure your friend there wouldn’t mind a bit of quiet.”

“Really. It’s fine.” There’s something uncomfortably familiar in the boy’s tone. It’s too careful, too calm, but with an undercurrent of fear that makes the words come out just slightly too fast. He’s heard that tone from Garak, he realizes abruptly, but only ever right before things got very, very bad.

“It’s Rhouk, isn’t it?” Julian asks, careful to keep his voice soft and calm.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is there a reason you don’t want to stop talking?”

The boy’s eyes flit between the three older men, and he pulls the girl closer against his chest. But when he speaks, his voice is deceptively steady. “Dekre’s in a lot of pain right now. Talking keeps her calm. I—” His voice breaks into another rasping cough, and the girl’s eyes flash open. “I need to keep her calm.”

Dread pools in the pit of Julian’s stomach. His medical education on Draconians was brief, barely a full day, but it was enough to touch on a rumor. “Why is that so important?”

Rhouk’s eyes keep flitting between them. His muscles tense. His breath hitches.

And suddenly the girl sits up with impossible speed, her pupils shot wide, her teeth bared. Rhouk grabs her by the shoulders in what might have been a restraint if it wasn’t so gentle.

“Shh,” he whispers in a voice that doesn’t betray his frantic eyes. “Shh, Dekre, it’s alright. Everything’s alright, nothing’s wrong. Rest, Dekre, rest.”

Garak goes very still. If Julian had any doubts left, that puts an end to them.

“She’s a berserker,” Julian says quietly. “And I suppose that makes you her handler.”

Rhouk is still murmuring soothing nothings, but he offers a guilty nod. He’s cradling the girl in his arms like she’s a child—or like a grenade.

“Oh, excellent,” Garak says cheerfully, as if the Draconian had walked into his shop on the promenade. “And you didn’t think this was worth mentioning to us before now? Tell me, are there any other weapons of mass destruction you’re hiding? Maybe some photon torpedoes up your sleeve?” 

“That’s enough, Mister Garak.” Sisko’s clipped tone softens when he addresses the boy again, kind and conversational. “You know, Rhouk, I was under the impression that Draconian berserkers were more obviously visible. Or were the tattoos just a rumor?”

“They aren’t.” Rhouk looks down at the girl and swallows. “Dekre’s—you need to know, Dekre’s fully trained. She is. She just hasn’t been initiated yet.”

Julian squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself not to swear. God, she’s even younger than he thought—the equivalent of a teenager. It isn’t as though she’s been conscripted—the Draconians aren’t even officially a part of this war, aside from a few scattered volunteers. What the hell are these two even _doing_ here?

The answer finds him before he can finish forming the question. Earth’s history is drenched with the blood of children who lied about their age to enter the army, lured to their deaths by fantasies about duty and patriotism and righteous war. He’s heard enough from Major Kira, from Garak and his literature, from far too many sources, that humans are far from the only species who carry that shame.

Rhouk can’t be all that much older, to be her handler. He looks terrified. More terrified now than he did out on the battlefield. And for good reason.

Garak shifts beside him, so subtle that Julian might never have caught the movement if he wasn’t already waiting for it. His hand closes around Garak’s wrist and pulls just so, just enough to force him to let go of a hidden blade. He catches Garak’s eyes.

“No.”

“I understand your feelings, Doctor,” Garak says in that same just-a-tailor voice. “Clearly you’ve never seen a Draconian berserker in action. I have. And I assure you, you don’t want to be trapped in an enclosed space with one. Not without a disruptor.”

But their weapons are out of reach, on the other side of a wall of mud and stone. And even if they weren't--

“She’s a _child_.”

“All the more reason to end her pain swiftly. Before she can do something she’ll regret.”

Rhouk’s eyes are wide and darting between them.

“That isn’t going to happen.” Julian is losing control of his tone. “The others are going to reach the runabout. It’s just a matter of time.”

“And which do you think will happen first?” Garak asks. “Half a company of wounded soldiers are going to navigate an unmapped cave system in a mountain crawling with Jem’Hadar, or that boy is going to collapse from exhaustion? Because the moment he does, I assure you, we are all dead.” Unless Dekre dies first.

Julian wants to shout at him, to grab him and shake him and tell him he can’t _do_ this, but he doesn’t dare. Not just because that might send the berserker girl into a frenzy.

But because he’s not entirely sure Garak is wrong.

This isn’t like the malfunctioning holosuite. The program was cartoonish—safe, in its own way, despite the real bullets and the inactive safety protocols. He knew the rules, knew exactly what to say and how to say it to bide his time until Engineering could put everyone back in their proper place. That game had been rigged in his favor from the beginning.

But he’s seen Rhouk nod off twice already between verses of that godawful poetry. This argument might leave him frightened enough to keep him awake a small while longer. But how long? And how much longer to they need before their rescue?

Kill one to save four? Or risk them all for the sake of someone who might not survive regardless?

To Garak’s cold pragmatism, it’s a simple equation. But it’s a question Julian can’t bear to answer.

He's wrenched out of his thoughts when Sisko rises to his feet and crosses the cave to stand over Rhouk. The boy clutches Dekre closer, utterly terrified. Sisko looms over him, a titan of pure authority, and the boy looks so very small.

“Take your rest, Private,” Sisko says, and he carefully scoops Dekre into his arms. “I’ll take care of her from here.”

There’s a moment of utter stillness between them, a silent struggle of unbroken gazes. And then Rhouk lets go and Sisko gently eases himself to the floor, the girl secure in his arms.

She starts to shift, to groan, to rise.

“It’s alright,” Sisko says, gentle and firm despite the pointed look he gives Garak. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

“Keep talking to her,” Rhouk murmurs.

“Any recommendations you might pass along?” Sisko asks.

“It doesn’t matter. She can’t understand you when she gets like this. It’s the tone that matters. That’s what lets her know she’s safe.”

Sisko looks down at the girl in his arms and for a moment his gaze is unreadable. Julian can’t help but think of those inevitable moments every time he moved to a new school. The wide grins, the demands of _‘oh, you speak Chadic? Say something!’_ , followed by an acute amnesia of the entire language. Bad enough when the only thing at risk was some schoolyard pride; now a girl’s life depends on the Captain’s ability to _just say something_.

“I have a son about your age,” Sisko says, the way someone else might have said ‘once upon a time’. “When he was younger, I was so sure he would go into Starfleet like his old man, but that just goes to show you that I’m not the one with an imagination in our family. He’s a writer—a war correspondent, but I think his real passion is in making up worlds of his own. Better, brighter worlds than the one we’re living in now.”

His voice fills the cavern, low and sonorous and soothing, and Julian can’t help but wonder if he perfected the technique reading bedtime stories to his son. And just like little Jake must have done once, Dekre settles and stills in his arms.

“He showed me a novel he wrote, not too long ago,” Sisko continues. “It’s sitting on a shelf for now, before he gives it a thorough editing, but already it’s a thing of beauty.” And he tells the story of Anselm to the girl, scene after scene, chapter after chapter, in summary and snatches of remembered prose.

Dekre isn’t the only one soothed. Not long after Anselm meets his love interest, the tale is accompanied by the easy rhythm of Rhouk’s snoring. Even Garak seems to have calmed, relaxing in increments against Julian’s side. Julian dares to wrap an arm around Garak’s shoulders to pull him closer—in part to keep him from getting any more ideas involving sharp objects, but also to offer him a little more warmth. Garak settles closer still.

Hours pass when the story finally draws to a close. The cavern is nearly silent except for soft snores, water on stone, and the shuddering breaths of a girl in pain.

Julian climbs to his feet. “How are you holding up, Captain?”

“No worse for the wear.” It’s a lie, if a small one. Sisko’s voice has been ground to raw gravel. “How is she?”

“Her breathing is steady. Pulse is faint, but stable. It’s honestly better than I would have hoped for.”

Sisko exhales softly, and Julian can see him searching his mind for another story.

“Sir,” Julian offers. “Shall I take over for a while? You look like you could use a rest.” Sisko glances in Garak’s direction in an unspoken question. “She’ll be safe with me.” It’s a promise that Julian intends to keep—and he knows exactly how.

Even to his augmented strength, the girl is upsettingly light when he gathers her into his arms, and he wonders just how close to her initiation she really is. The thought comes back, bitter and painful. _She's just a child._

He carries her back to the place he'd been sitting.

"Garak." He looks the Cardassian in the eyes. "Can you take her while I get settled?"

He knows Garak well enough to catch the flicker of surprise before it's concealed. Because Garak might not be _trustworthy_ , exactly, but Julian is choosing to trust him all the same.

"Of course, Doctor." And he accepts the burden of that trust, just as he accepts the weight of the girl into his arms.

His knife briefly glints in the light of the tricorder that acts as their makeshift lamp. It remains safely tucked into his sleeve.

Julian settles beside him and gets comfortable-- so much as one can on a cold stone floor-- before he draws the girl back to himself. Her legs are stretched over Garak’s lap almost like a blanket, and Julian holds her upright to ease her breathing.

"Tell me, Doctor," Garak says, because the lull has stretched just a little too long. "How do you plan to regale us all tonight? Tales of your childhood, perhaps? Cherished fairytales?"

Garak is prompting him, he knows. He's filling the silence while Julian gathers his thoughts.

Truth be told, Julian has never been much of a storyteller. His creativity is far more honed in the direction of research and medical procedure, and his small-talk unfortunately reflects it.

But he does have an eidetic memory.

Whatever he says to the injured Draconian doesn’t need to be interesting or exciting—in fact, the more boring, the better.

“Tell me, Dekre,” he says, though he only feels Garak’s eyes on him. “Have you ever read _The Never-Ending Sacrifice_?”

* * *

Julian hasn’t wrapped up the first generation of patriotic Cardassians by the time he feels the disorienting buzz of the transporter beam. He barely has a chance to sit up properly before the cave wall is no longer there to prop up his back. Rhouk, still asleep, is not so lucky. He lands in a heap on the infirmary floor, blinking at combat medics like he's in a dream.

The girl is sprawled across the four of them now; once Sisko was sure she was safe in arm’s reach of the Cardassian, he shepherded Rhouk to Julian’s side and settled next to Garak. For warmth, Julian reasons, and for that little measure of added safety. But for once, there’s no need to worry about Garak.

“This girl needs immediate medical attention,” he says, his voice caught in the same low drone he’s used to recite a hundred pages of Cardassian literature. “She’ll need to be sedated—heavily—before you move her. Rhouk, I want you to stay by her side.” Despite being half asleep, the boy doesn’t need telling, but Julian wants to make it clear to the rest of the crew that he and Dekre aren’t to be separated. And if he can do that without revealing the girl’s status, all the better.

There other others in the crew who are qualified to administer battlefield medicine. They can stabilize Dekre's condition, treat Sisko and Rhouk for dehydration, tend to the other wounded. He passes the responsibility into their arms more willingly than he has in months.

He's done what he could.

Now it's his turn to rest. 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from a bit of microfiction by Jane Yolen, titled "Story, the old man said", which always stuck with me. (Which was actually published while DS9 was airing, for what that's worth.) You can find it in her collections "How to Fracture a Fairy Tale" and "Here There Be Dragons". 
> 
> Specifically the line, "'Story', the old man said, looking beyond the cave to the dragon's tracks. 'Story is our wall against the dark.'"


End file.
